


Anything but Ordinary

by amuk



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Community: 31_days, Gen, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-26 13:35:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/651045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amuk/pseuds/amuk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She was expected to be average and even now, when she's on the edge of something extraordinary, she's still average.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anything but Ordinary

**Author's Note:**

> Day/Theme: Oct 11 // I feel about average

She expected an ordinary life, one that followed her mother's and one that her daughter would follow after. If she didn't enjoy the route she expected, she never showed it.  
  
When she reached sixteen, she would find some nice boy, John something-or-other, and they would fall in-love. Not madly, not passionately, but calmly and instead of lingering kisses and heated stares there would be gentle mumurings and promises of what is to come. At twenty, she would marry, at twenty-two she would have her first child. They would have three kids--one girl, two boys--and she would cook and clean and watch the kids and do anything and everything that was expected of her.   
  
At ninety she would die of old age, her husband dead three years ago.  
  
That was what was expected of her and she never tried to prove it wrong.  
  
(When Miranda was five, she wanted to dance on sparrow wings and twirl her way into ballet. When she was ten she tried to be a singer, a shop owner, a maid, anything to get her out of here.  
  
When Miranda was fourteen, she saw where her talents lay ( _nowhere_ ) and gave up on running.)

-x-

The clock on her arm stutters and halts when it ticks away time, gasping and wheezing like she is. Catching her breath, she wipes the sweat off her forehead and continues to chase after the pencil outlines of a boy and a girl, the shadows that she can barely touch.   
  
They are too fast, too powerful, and something tells her she will never catch up. They will stay ahead of her, darting elusively into the bushes and trees of her hopes, and maybe one day she can brush the edges of their skill, taste the remains of their talent.   
  
She doubts it though, pushing and pushing herself forward. Her legs are burning, her lungs are collapsing, and she finds it funny that her knees are the first to go. Tripping, she pants as she lies there, sprawled on the ground.  
  
They are vanishing again, disappearing into the distance once more. She won't catch up to them this time, has to hope they remember to come back for her instead.   
  
(Miranda once tries to tell herself, she has a gift, she is special and she is _needed_. That more than anything makes her not-average, drags her away from that life of cycles and tradition. She has something no one else does and if she works for it (and she will, because she has to, she just _has_ to), she will be somewhere in the horizon this time, instead of watching the stars from earth.  
  
Then she remembers of the gaping distance between her and the others and thinks that even now, even when she has finally touched the extraordinary, she is still that average girl who cannot run.)


End file.
